Chapter 10 Cole
TEN
Cole
A sharp knock sounded on my door, and Rowan let herself into my office without waiting—standard operating procedure for her—and dropped into the visitor chair as if she owned the place. She crossed one leg over the other, boots dripping melted snow on my carpet, then arched an eyebrow at me.
“Busy?” she asked, which was Rowan-speak for I’m about to ruin your day.
I leaned back, steepling my fingers. “Terrified to find out why you’re here.”
“I’ve been doing some digging. Into Gabbi’s mom’s family.”
My stomach tightened. “And?”
“It’s… not giving me good feelings,” she said carefully.
“Old money. Very old. The kind of money that buys reputation management teams and private schools. Gabbi’s mom was one of five siblings—the youngest, the screw-up, the black sheep.
Drugs. Bad grades. Kicked out of two private academies.
The whole thing was brushed under the family’s very expensive carpet. ”
“Okay?” None of that surprised me. Not after what Morgan had told me. “What does their being around mean for Morgan?” I asked quietly. “What are the chances of him losing her?”
Rowan exhaled. “That’s what we need to figure out.”
“Old money? Anything we can… leverage?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Reflex, maybe—my own family’s wealth had always been less about prestige and more about the quiet negotiations that came with it.
Like recognizes like, and old-money families often operated by the same unspoken rules.
Rowan gave a sharp shake of her head. “Different kind of old money,” she said.
“Old-old. The kind that doesn’t need to make deals, because they already own the table the deals happen on.
Although”—she lifted a finger—”one of the brothers does have his investments managed by our firm.
And no,” she added before I could open my mouth, “we are not going to blackmail him.”
“I wasn’t suggesting—” I stopped, horrified she’d had to say it.
Rowan smirked. “Relax. I thought it, not you.”
“Well, maybe don’t,” I muttered, which only made her laugh harder.
She pushed off with one boot, spinning the chair in a lazy half-circle before letting it come to an abrupt stop. Then she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes narrowing with laser-focused intent.
“Spill,” she demanded—Rowan in full interrogation mode.
“Spill what?”
“How long have we been friends?”
College. Day one. I’d walked into the communal lounge of our freshman dorm carrying a stack of orientation papers I hadn’t read, wearing a shirt my mother insisted made me look “approachable.” Rowan was already there, feet on the table, half-asleep over a coffee the size of her head.
Someone had left a box of battered secondhand paperbacks on a chair, and when another freshman rifled through them, tossing a dog-eared sci-fi novel toward the trash, Rowan caught it one-handed and said, “Hey, that’s a classic. ”
I’d turned. “You’ve read that?”
She’d blinked at me, sizing me up like she was deciding whether I was worth her oxygen. “Have you?”
We ended up talking for three hours—books, film scores, the absolute tragedy of cafeteria coffee. By the time we realized the sun had set, we’d already fallen into the kind of easy rhythm people usually take years to build.
So, yeah. A long time.
“Too long,” I said with a sigh.
“So, you’re personally invested in Corporal Morgan Armitage and his daughter.”
“Is that a question or a statement?” Another eyebrow—honestly, would it kill people to use actual words instead of communicating exclusively through facial gymnastics? “Yes, I’m invested. And—” I blew out a breath. Screw it. “I kissed him. And I’m taking him and Gabbi on a date.”
She stared at me. Blinked once. Twice. “I’m sorry—you’re doing what now?”
“You heard.”
She bit her lip—a tell, the same one she’d had since college.
She was choosing her words, probably gearing up to say this was reckless, too fast, that Morgan was vulnerable, and the legal landscape was a minefield I had no business tap-dancing across.
And just like that, my brain took off—worst-case scenarios, custody threats, me screwing everything up. Perfect. Now I was spiraling.
“Cool. I like him,” she said instead.
“Huh?”
“He’s shown up in your life at the strangest possible moment, carrying enough baggage to fill a cargo hold—but you’re a good man, Cole, and the two of you could actually be good for each other. And, selfishly? I’d finally get to call myself an unofficial but super cool aunt.”
“Oh. So, a date is okay?”
Rowan narrowed her eyes at me. “Yep, now where exactly is this date happening?”
I froze. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I know you,” she said, pointing at me. “You’ve overthought it, researched it, made a spreadsheet—”
“I did not make a spreadsheet.”
“—and whatever you picked is either going to be adorable or a disaster. So? Spill. Where are you taking them?”
I sighed. “I was thinking… the Chicago Children’s Museum. They’ve got this sensory area—bright, soft, safe. Perfect for babies Gabbi’s age.”
Rowan’s mouth twitched. “Aw. You’re trying. That’s cute.”
“But is it a good idea?” I asked, suddenly uncertain. “Too much? Too forward? I’ve spent way too long googling child-friendly date ideas, and—look, don’t judge me—but I now know more about developmental sensory play than any man without a kid probably should.”
She snorted. “Cole, that’s sweet. And not in the ‘you’re pathetic’ way. In the actual sweet way.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “I’ve been ignoring paperwork.
Lennox has already come in here three times because I keep initialing the wrong lines.
And instead of fixing the mistakes, I’m looking up things like ‘best baby sensory environments Chicago’ and ‘first date ideas for single dads and their kids who deserve the entire world.’”
Her mouth fell open. “The entire world?”
“Yeah,” I groaned dramatically. “See! I’m stupid. This has never happened before, Ro, I don’t understand it.”
“You’re not stupid, Cole, you’re just a mess,” Rowan said cheerfully. “But honestly? A lovable one. So, when is this date happening?”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Saturday at two. I’m picking them up.
Should I take a car myself? Or use my driver?
But what if he thinks I’m flashing cash—or worse, that I’m some pretentious asshole?
Maybe I should get a cab? But then the car seat situation—babies need one, obviously, and I bought three to test them out and—”
“Stop!” Rowan planted her palms on my desk and glared down at me. “He knows you have money. That’s not news. And he’s not going to judge you for using the resources you already have. So yes—use your driver. Practice with the damn car seats. Breathe.”
I opened my mouth, but she wasn’t done.
“And speaking of you being rich and shit—” She gave me a pointed look. “You’re sure he’s going on this date for the right reasons?”
Out of all the things I’d worried about, his agreeing to this date because of how much money I had hadn’t even made the list. But now?
Jesus. Should it be? My mind took off at a sprint—what if he felt obligated, or trapped, or like saying yes was easier than saying no?
What if he just wanted my money and didn’t want to kiss me, and I forced him?
What if I was reading everything wrong? What if this blew up in his face and mine? What if—
“Cole.” Rowan’s voice cut through my second bout of spiraling, sharp, and exasperated.
Before I could blink, she yanked me out of my chair and hauled me into a fierce hug, arms tight around my shoulders.
“You are the best man I’ve never dated,” she muttered into my shoulder. “Trust your gut. It’s better than your brain, which is clearly trying to kill you.”
Lennox stepped in then, hovering in the doorway with a stack of files tucked under one arm and pure suffering etched across his face. He gave a pointed cough, the kind that demanded attention without saying a word.
“Oh, good, the muscle is here,” he said dryly. “Help me pin the boss down, Rowan. He needs to sign these before someone burns this building to the ground. Possibly me.”
Rowan didn’t miss a beat. She released me, turned with a grin, and drawled, “Lennox, sweetheart, if you wanted my hands on you, all you had to do was ask.”
Lennox went bright pink. Actually pink. He fumbled the folders, nearly dropped one, and made a sound that could only be described as a strangled squeak.
“I—that’s not—I meant legally pin Cole down, not me—”
“Oh, I know what you meant,” Rowan said, patting his cheek as she sauntered past him toward the door. “But it’s fun watching you malfunction.”
Lennox shot me a helpless look, as if I had any control over my best friend. I held up my hands in surrender.
“Later, boys,” Rowan called with a little wave, already halfway down the hall.
Lennox blew out a breath, straightened his shirt as if he hadn’t just been flirted into short-circuiting, and dropped the stack of files onto my desk.
“Please,” he begged. “Just sign things in the right place this time.”
“Stay there,” I said, knowing the only way it would get done was if he hovered and judged every pen stroke.
He did. Lennox stood over me while I signed each page in the correct place for once. When the last signature was done, he snatched the files up with a relieved huff.
“Miracles do happen,” he muttered. “I’m framing this day.” Then, with a tiny, embarrassed nod—still recovering from Rowan—he headed out of my office.
The room fell quiet.
A buzz from my phone broke the silence. I glanced down.
A text from Morgan.
It was a photo—Gabbi in the hat I’d bought her. Too big, sliding over one eye, her gummy smile aimed straight at the camera as if she knew she was rocking that one-eyed look.
She loves it, Morgan had typed.
And just like that—every worry, every spiral, every fear about money and motives and dates and drivers—slipped clean out of my mind.
All that was left was warmth. And him. And her.
When Saturday arrived, I’d worked myself into panic again.
We arrived at Guardian Hall, and Georgie had the car idling at the curb when I stepped outside—a sleek black Mercedes, spotless as ever, with a baby seat installed in the rear.
The trunk was already loaded with every conceivable baby-disaster item a paranoid man could justify owning; spare clothes, wipes, blankets, a portable bottle warmer, snacks, toys, and a first-aid kit—actually, two first-aid kits.
“Big day, sir?” Georgie asked, eyes twinkling in the rearview.
“Don’t start,” I warned, tugging at my coat. “I’m nervous enough.”
He smiled as though he’d been waiting years for me to say something that embarrassing.
I ignored him and headed up the path. My knock had barely landed before the door opened.
Morgan stood there—one hand maneuvering the brand-new stroller I’d had delivered, too embarrassed to admit I’d done it, the other juggling two large bags. And Gabbi, strapped to his front in a carrier, wearing the hat.
The hat.
My heart did something stupid.
“You don’t have to carry all that,” I said, reaching for the stroller.
Morgan huffed out a laugh. “I wasn’t planning to. I figured you’d swoop in like some stroller valet.”
“That’s not a thing,” I protested, taking the bags anyway.
“It is now,” he said, stepping aside so I could grab the last strap.
Gabbi spotted me, let out a delighted squeak, and kicked. The hat wobbled.
“She’s excited,” I said unnecessarily. Morgan smiled, his eyes fond and tired, and I nodded toward the street. “Car’s right out front.”
We headed down the steps together, me overloaded like a pack mule, Morgan adjusting the carrier straps as he walked.
Georgie hopped out to help, greeting Morgan with a polite nod and Gabbi with a grin. “Afternoon, little miss.” He tickled her foot; she squealed.
We loaded the bags, folded the stroller into the trunk, and got Gabbi settled into the car seat with only minor wrestling and one enthusiastic kick to my face.
When I closed the door and rounded the car to slide in beside Georgie, I buckled in and twisted to look at Morgan in the back, Gabbi strapped in beside him. “You ready for this?”
He hesitated, eyes flicking to Gabbi, then back to me. “Yeah,” he said softly, tilting his chin in that brave way he did when he wasn’t entirely sure. “It’s all good.”
“Ready, sir?” Georgie asked.
I faced forward, exhaling slowly. I wished I was in the back with them, but I hadn’t thought this through. Next time, I should use a bigger car so I could sit in the back with Morgan and Gabbi without crowding them. Or hell, buy something else if I needed to.
Whatever made things easier. Whatever made them comfortable.
Anything for them.
Anything.